


Never Trouble Tribbles Until Tribbles Trouble You

by amorremanet



Series: the Mind Meld 'verse [5]
Category: Star Trek: The Original Series, Supernatural
Genre: Community: hc_bingo, Episode Related, Episode: s02e13 The Trouble With Tribbles, Gen, Grumpy Castiel, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Shore Leave, Slice of Life, Telepathy, Therapy, Vulcan, tumblr: surlycas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-23
Updated: 2013-06-23
Packaged: 2017-12-15 20:42:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/853846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amorremanet/pseuds/amorremanet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Cas'tell takes his shore leave and has a terrible, awful, no good, very bad day (except for the part where he meets an Orion smuggler—that part is pretty cool).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the hc_bingo prompt, "counseling" and several of the surlycas challenge prompts (stranger danger, weird science, better clubs, altered states, and communication breakdown).

"So, are you gonna take your shore leave with your boyfriend or what, Clarence?"

Cas looks up from his PADD and arches his eyebrow at Meg. They're in sickbay, and alone, and he's meant to be working while the rest of the crew takes their shore leave—at least, that's what he told Doctor McCoy that he'd be doing, and as a matter of personal preference, Cas likes not lying to his superior.

"I wasn't planning on it," he says with a huff. "There's nothing wrong with using my shore leave to stay here and work on my paper. Getting the honor of writing up the case with Commander Spock and his father could make my publishing career."

Shaking his head, he scribbles down a note in the margins of his document. "Besides, there are Klingons on the station. I would prefer to avoid the Klingons if I can help it. Which I can. By not going to the station. …And I still don't know who Clarence is."

Meg narrows her black-irised eyes at him and wrinkles her nose. "Well, there's nothing wrong with being upset about the Klingons. I mean, I can't stand them—the thoughts and feelings they radiate when you try prying into their skulls? It's all blood-wine this, and honor that, and brutal aggression, I could totally lose my mind if I had to work in close contact with any of them."

"I'm not upset about the Klingons. Perhaps you should avoid using your telepathic abilities so unethically," Cas points out. It's not that he doesn't like the _Enterprise_ 's new counselor—on the contrary, he finds Meg quite engaging and more than deserving of her position, despite the rumors that she obtained it entirely through nepotism—but he's never met a Betazoid who's so willing to use their telepathic abilities on unsuspecting, and sometimes unwilling, people.

Come to think, he's never met a Betazoid who's quite as sardonic as Meg, either. Most of the Betazoids he's ever dealt with have been kind and peaceful to a fault—they're almost as bad as the Risians with their _what's ours is yours_ nonsense. Not that Cas particularly condones violence, as that would be illogical, but he appreciates that Meg isn't quite as much of a pushover as some of her fellows. He likes the way she looks at people like they're challenges to be taken on, and he likes the way she smirks at him without any remorse for anything she's said. Even the parts where she's admitted that she uses her powers unethically.

Regardless, Cas sighs and tells her, "I imagine that your natural empathic abilities often make themselves useful in your line of work, but it might behoove you to, for instance, not go around mentally spying on the Klingons. Actually, it might behoove you to never be around Klingons in the first place, considering that they are a bunch of foul-smelling, imperialistic barbarians. Avoiding them as a matter of principle ought to be a simple question of logic."

"Like I could help them being around while I was serving aboard the star-base. It got used as a diplomatic hub—you do know that the Organian Peace Treaty was signed on my old star-base, don't you?"

"Well, that still doesn't mean that you should pry into their thoughts and feelings without consent."

"Like I can just turn it off, Pretty Boy," she snaps and rubs at her temples. "I mean, I can filter out most things, so it's not like I'm _spying_ on people or reading their minds without their consent. But I get low-grade emotional readings off of basically everyone—especially off of Klingons, because they feel everything _so_ much more intensely than the average humanoid. At least it makes reading people easier, which, just between you and me? Makes my job a lot simpler."

"How fortunate for you," Cas supposes and shrugs. "It must be doubly fortunate for you that you choose to spend so much of your free time with someone whose emotions are biologically suppressed, if not outright absent."

"I've never actually met a Vulcan who didn't experience emotions to some degree, which includes you. Besides, I've read the brain-scans from your last physical. Your mesiofrontal cortex, while perfectly healthy, is so much less developed than the typical Vulcan's, even less than Commander Spock's. Must be the high concentration of human DNA you've got." She smiles at him, but there's absolutely nothing pleasant about it. She smiles like a piece of broken glass.

Cas huffs again and tightens his grip on his stylus. "Perhaps, but that just raises the question of why you felt the need to snoop into ship personnel's physicals in the first place."

All Meg does in response to this is shrug and tug on the hem of her science-blue dress. "Well, sweetheart, I had to familiarize myself with anyone who could possibly require my services," she explains, drawling as though Cas should have inferred this on his own. "Reading up on the personnel files was one of the first things I did when I got aboard the _Enterprise_. Which would be all the proof I'd need that you _are_ upset about the Klingons being around. Never mind the part where you're just radiating irritation."  

"I imagine that this generally happens when I'm working on a paper. Word choice tends to be difficult, and then there are the other matters of stylistics, and fitting in all the relevant information without overloading the reader, and making the case seem—"

"And it has nothing to do with being in close proximity to the people who blew up your parents?" Meg purses her lips, tucks some of her long, black hair behind her ear. "Well, I suppose that Captain Koloth and his men probably aren't the ones who _actually_ blew up your parents, but still. Do you _really_ expect me to believe that you don't have any feelings whatsoever about being around Klingons, in light of your history with them?"

"I don't _have_ a history with them, Meg. Yes, Klingons killed my parents, but I don't have any feelings about them. When I call them foul-smelling, imperialistic barbarians, it is based solely on my own interactions with them and my knowledge of Klingon conquests within the Alpha Quadrant, _not_ on some emotions that I'm meant to have about something that happened before I was capable of forming coherent memories." Never mind that, regardless of his underdeveloped mesiofrontal cortex, Cas's emotions are still suppressed, to some degree, on a biological level.

Leaning back, propping herself up with her palms on the desk, and crossing her legs, Meg drags her eyes up and down over Cas's frame like a phaser sweep. "So, have you heard anything from your sister lately? She was shacked up with a sculptor on Risa last time she sent you a transmission, right? But hopping around deep space stations before that? Who knows, maybe you'll run into her…"

Cas tosses his stylus down to the desk, huffs as he clicks off his PADD. "Anna got a very important grant to teach and study painting at one of the art academies on Risa, yes. That her girlfriend is a sculptor has nothing to do with anything. And if I agree to go spend some time on the station with Dean, then will you _please_ stop asking me all of these invasive questions outside of the context of therapy sessions?  

Really, if they were in a therapy session, Cas wouldn't mind everything that Meg's asked him so far today, but since they're supposed to be spending time together as _friends_ at the moment, he can't think of anything more annoying. Pretending to consider his request, she combs a hand back through her hair, ties it all back into a ponytail, and says nothing for long enough that Cas considers snapping at her.

Then, finally, she tells him, "Sure, Clarence. I'll stop trying to get to know you better if you take some time off to go dork around the station with your boyfriend."

Which, Cas supposes, settles the matter. The only thing he needs to do now? Is go find Dean and catch a ride over on the transporter.

*******

What Cas and Meg generally don't talk about, in therapy or out of it, is the fact that she's on the _Enterprise_ because of Dean, because of Dean's family situation.

In fairness, that's not entirely true. In fairness, the entire crew of the _Enterprise_ has been through a great deal in the past year-and-a-half, from their encounter with Khan Noonien Singh to their dealings with the contagion around Psi 2000 to their confrontation with the Romulan vessel near the Neutral Zone. There have been more than a handful of occasions when crew members nearly died, and plenty more when they took casualties. Cas has seen exposed bones, and phaser burns, and more than his fair share of dying people. There is nothing about their mission that particularly promotes emotional health.  

But also in fairness, the lid blowing off of the Winchester scandal is what prompted Starfleet to probe into all of what's been going on aboard the _Enterprise_ in the first place. They said that Dean's psychological and emotional upset, while due in large part to his father, could never have reached the apex that it did without being exacerbated by the conditions aboard the _Enterprise_. And that inquest is what resulted in Starfleet Command appointing Meg to be the new ship's counselor. The position was created specifically so that she could join Captain Kirk's crew as the resident provider of psychological care during a difficult and incredibly taxing mission. Supposedly, she's going to alleviate things around here, to some degree.

Supposedly, she's going to take some of the weight off of Doctor McCoy's shoulders, especially since he has no formal mental health-related training and doesn't particularly enjoy serving as a counselor. 

It really isn't that Cas objects to Meg being here. He doesn't even mind that she sometimes comes off like she's just waiting for someone to write a case-study on for one of the Federation's myriad psychological research journals. For the most part, Cas has nothing but respect for Meg—but there's still the issue of how she insists that allowing himself to fully experience his feelings is what's best for him, that at least acknowledging them would help him a great deal, though she never specifies what it's meant to help with.

She doesn't know what Cas has had to live with, though. Oh, she might _know_ it, intellectually, but she's never had to live with it herself. She's never had to be too illogical and too emotional for Vulcans, but too cold and too rational for humans. She's never had to deal with her foster brothers telling her that she'll never fit in anywhere, that she'll always be stuck between two worlds and unwanted in both. She's never had to bite back on her righteous indignation, keep herself from punching someone, because that action would just prove that she's not really Vulcan—not Vulcan enough to count as one, anyway.

She's never had it thrown in her face that emotions are more trouble than they're worth, and she's never had a point made out of how logic, while ostensibly easier than feeling, has its own difficulties.

Cas stops in his quarters on his way down to Engineering, tiptoes over the different things that Dean's left lying around the floor and changes out of his scrubs, and he almost gets out of there fine—until he makes the mistake of looking in the mirror. Why he even has the mirror is beyond him, it never accomplishes anything, just makes sure that his hair's in-place (as in-place as it ever gets) and that he's some kind of low-grade irritated with everything. Even his reflection is an amalgam—his ears pointed but not quite pointed enough for Vulcans, his cheeks prone to flushing in a shade that can't decide if it's green or red…

If violence weren't so illogical, if it weren't guaranteed to make his life harder with all the explanations he'd have to give to Meg and Doctor McCoy and Nurse Chapel and probably Commander Spock, Cas would punch the mirror for all he's worth. He'd smash into it until it shattered, lodging hunks of broken glass in his fingers and making him flinch just to avoid getting them in his eyes. And then he'd laugh until his throat ached and his diaphragm begged him to stop, because finally, he'd have beaten a reflection that never really looks like how he wants to look.

But all he does today is glare at himself and huff. He can't punch anything today, much less anything that would hurt him too much in return—he has some shore leave to go take. And who knows? Cas might even manage to enjoy himself, if he's going to be with Dean.


	2. Chapter 2

There's just one problem with Cas's plan, and it's that he fails to take Dean's free will into account.

He fails to think, for just one second, that Dean has friendships with other people on the ship and that he might ask some of them to accompany him and Cas down to K-7, as per Captain Kirk's request that everyone going to the station stay in groups. Cas would argue that two people constitutes a group well enough, but when he shows up to the transporter room and sees Dean standing there with Charlie Bradbury, the _Enterprise_ 's resident anthropologist, it becomes clear that Dean had certain other ideas. Certain other ideas that will require Cas to talk to people.

Not that Cas really _minds_ the idea of spending his entire day with Charlie Bradbury—not that there's anything particularly objectionable about his boyfriend's best friend—not that there's anything wrong with talking to her, in any sort of capacity… but Cas only promised to take shore leave with Dean, and as he climbs up on the transporter pad, Cas has to keep himself from rolling his eyes or rubbing at his temples or burying his face in his hands, following some bizarre, instinctual notion that if he can't see Charlie Bradbury, then she can't see him. The only thing that keeps Cas in line is the warm scent of _Dean_ that he gets, just from standing right here next to him.  

"D'you guys think we're gonna run into any of the Klingons while we're down here? I'd love to meet them, maybe learn some of their battle songs in-person instead of from a book…" Charlie muses as they head out of the station's transporter pad and over to the visitors' directory, and it takes everything Cas has in him not to say, _I certainly hope not_. He can't say something like that in response to Charlie's enthusiasm for Klingons and their culture. It's not as though he _wants_ to be rude, and it's probably some kind of extension of her doing her job—but all the same, Cas digs his nails into his palm, has to force himself to keep his expression neutral instead of agitated.  

Thankfully, Dean says what Cas is thinking for him, drumming his fingertips down the directory's screen, perusing all the options for where they could go: "No offense, but I really hope we _don't_ go running into any of those guys. The last thing I want to do on shore-leave is tussle with some son of a bitch Klingon. Did you know that their government specially breeds them to be warriors? And the people sign up for that. Like, they actually sign up for their High Council or whatever it's called to tell them how to fuck and who to fuck so their babies can be some kind of freaky super warriors and kill everything in their paths."

Charlie huffs and rolls her eyes. "I keep telling you, you can't take any of the Federation's pamphlets about Klingon culture and behavior seriously. You can't take _anything_ the Federation and Starfleet Command say about the Klingons seriously. I mean, okay, that part's not a _complete_ lie or anything? Klingons have a highly stratified society and a _lot_ of rules about who's an acceptable match for whom, and they take their honor codes very seriously? And a lot of their honor is staked on being a powerful, competent warrior—but it's really not the way that the Federation makes it sound in all the propaganda."

"Really? Is that the case?" Cas says before he can think to stop himself, folding his arms over his chest. "Because the Federation's so-called propaganda makes it sound as though the Klingons are a bunch of borderline illiterate, warmongering, imperialistic barbarians who will stop at nothing to eradicate us and everything we stand for. And I see very little evidence to the contrary."

"That is _so_ not the case, though. Like, at all. Like, not even a little bit. And have you ever thought that maybe you don't see any evidence to the contrary because Federation information channels don't _want_ you to? And really, it's super-gross, the way that the Federation propaganda about Klingons tries to make them out like that, just to justify possibly going to war with them. Not that I think it's ever going to happen, each side has way too much to lose, but you never know. It might. And I think we should really be educating people about what Klingons are really like, so that it _doesn't_ happen."

"Well, I, for one, think that I know _everything_ that I need to know about Klingons, Lieutenant Bradbury—"

"And as far as 'borderline illiterate' goes, remind me to show you the translation of King Kahless the Unforgettable's letters to Lady Lukara when we're back on the _Enterprise_. It's some of the most beautiful poetry that I've ever read—"

"I don't particularly enjoy poetry," Cas says and only barely fights off the impulse to roll his eyes, or punch someone, or otherwise behave in an illogical fashion. Catching an odd _Look_ from Dean, though, he adds on, "But thank you very much for offering to educate me."

"Well, I'm just saying, Cas," she chirps. "We could maybe prevent a war if we educated people more." 

"Charlie, you're in _Starfleet_ ," Dean points out and musses her bangs. "In case you haven't noticed, we're not exactly the most pacifist organization in the galaxy."

"We're an instrument of peace and diplomacy and all good things, though, right? I mean, that's what Captain Kirk always says. Just because we're technically a paramilitary organization doesn't mean that we can only exercise force or whatever." She shrugs as though this ought to make itself obvious. "Besides, think about the opportunities we could have if we ran into some Klingons on the station, started making nice with them… like, think galactically, act locally, right?"

"You're sort of ignoring the point of that sentence, but okay, sure. Think galactically, act locally, make friends with the stinking Klingons or whatever. That's totally the point of Starfleet, yeah."

"Well, the idea isn't entirely without precedent," Cas points out with a huff. "Starfleet has many different departments for a reason, and the sole point of it isn't warmongering. After all, we're not the Klingons."

"That sentiment would've been a whole lot better expressed if you hadn't thrown in a dig at the Klingons for no reason like that," Charlie says, wrinkling her nose like an irritated kitten. It would probably be a nicer-looking expression if Cas didn't want to scream at her that no, he had every reason to insult the Klingons. 

But in lieu of that, he hugs himself tighter and deadpans, "Of course. How could I do something so callous and terrible as saying negative things about the Klingons. It isn't as though they used to blow up Federation ships because they felt like it and only _stopped_ because of the Organian Peace Treaty. It isn't as though they conquer planets and force the inhabitants to adopt Klingon culture. It isn't as though they're a bunch of violent, warmongering barbarians."  

Sighing heavily, Dean rubs at the bridge of his nose and says, "You'll have to give Doctor Love a bit of leeway over here, Charlie. He's got a bit of family history with the Klingons—he's like how Stiles gets about the Romulans. Only he doesn't admit to that part—"

"Because everything that I think about the Klingons is based in the logical conclusions that I have drawn based on observation of them in different situations. And reading up on their history and how they handle themselves in myriad diplomatic arenas. _And_ my personal history with the Klingons has no bearing on how I feel about them because it would be illogical for me to have feelings about something that happened before I was capable of forming memories." Cas shrugs. All of this, he feels, is fairly self-explanatory. Naturally, his only motivation here is logic—pure, simple, trustworthy logic.

"Well, I still think you're both being unnecessarily douchey about the Klingons," Charlie tells him. "Logic or no logic, they're really a fascinating people who deserve just as much respect as any other species. And I would love to get to know them better. In some capacity beyond helping Lieutenant Uhura advise the Captain and Commander Spock on how they can avoid accidentally offending the Klingons."

Cas doesn't think of himself as a particularly violent person—after all, he's a doctor—but right now, he thinks that he would gladly punch a Klingon he's never met before just to make the point that he has no interest in ever being friends with any of them. Ever. Running into the Klingons is literally the only thing that could make their presence in the same general area as Cas any worse. Except for, maybe, the way that Dean and Charlie are so relaxed around each other, and the way she makes him smile so easily.

Not that Cas is particularly jealous or suspicious of their relationship. Being that Charlie is a lesbian, any jealousy or suspicion would be illogical. He just doesn't like it when she's the one who makes Dean smile.

Never mind the way that Charlie links her arm with Dean's. By all appearances, the three of them should be a young couple of officers and their part-Vulcan friend—most people would assume so because Charlie and Dean are both humans, and interspecies romances, while accepted, are still rather uncommon. Aside from that fact, there's the issue of how Dean and Charlie can actually be affectionate with each other. Dean can squeeze her hand while they peruse the directory and not have to worry that Charlie might get some kind of privileged glimpse into his mind or that he might feel what she feels.

When Cas holds two fingers up for Dean, in the gesture he learned from observing Commander Spock's parents while Ambassador Sarek was in sickbay, Dean pauses and double-checks. Just to make sure that Cas is wearing his gloves. Of course he is—and it's almost offensive that Dean would think he isn't—and of course he gets his Vulcan kiss in the end, but it's the principle of the thing. It's the fact of the matter where Cas has to endure Dean's suspicions, where he has to tolerate the implication that he wouldn't take the most basic precautions to guarantee Dean's psychological safety. As though his pathetic excuse for telepathy could really hurt Dean in the same way that Commander Spock's could, or in the same way that a full-blooded Vulcan's could.

But, naturally, that doesn't matter—not after the Mind Meld, not after it took so much effort to extricate Dean and Cas from each other—and Commander Spock would chastise Cas into the next century if he didn't do everything he can to protect Dean's psyche. Even with their lessons, Cas still can't completely control his abilities, not to the extent that Commander Spock would like, so skin-on-skin contact is too dangerous.

Only half-listening to their continued pondering over Klingons, Cas follows where Dean and Charlie lead. Without asking Cas about it, they get it in their heads to wander down to the station's promenade, which Cas doesn't suppose is entirely uncalled for, but he hates the fact that Charlie came up with this idea. Which is nothing against Charlie herself—it's nothing against Charlie because Cas says that it's nothing against Charlie—but is simply a matter of Cas thinking that they should've had a vote or something, just to get everyone's opinions about what they should do before running off to do anything in particular.

Meandering up and down the promenade takes them a while, if mostly because Dean and Charlie keep getting distracted, looking in the windows of the different shops but only rarely going into them. Charlie drags them into a clothiers and trinket store, and wastes a good deal of time modeling tiaras before she actually picks one out to buy. In the cybernetics shop, Dean's face lights up like fireworks as he babbles about what all the different things are and what they do—and Cas allows himself to smile at this, at least until Charlie catches him and his cheeks flush hot as he remembers he's not supposed to be expressing his emotions so openly as this.

And as though things about today really needed to get worse, there are the animals. There's some man in the middle of everything, right in the center of the promenade, wearing an old green jacket and selling the small, fuzzy tribble things that Lieutenant Uhura had out on the ship this morning. Only ten credits a piece, as though anyone would actually want to waste ten credits on a pet that, by all appearances, doesn't even do anything.

Well, they sit around and they make noise, and that noise seems to calm people down, but they don't do anything to make them worth the effort it would take to feed them.

"Are you _serious_?" Charlie balks when Cas expresses his distaste for the tribble things. "You and First Officer Spock both, I swear—why do they have to serve some kind of purpose? Why can't they just be cute and cuddly and make nice little sounds? They're pets, Cas. I mean, seriously."

"They're _pests_ , more accurately," Cas tells her, narrowing his eyes at a young ensign who's buying a tribble and looking absolutely delighted about it. "I don't know how many of them showed up here initially, but they seem to be spreading. Multiplying. If they keep up like this, then they'll become an ecological menace in short order."

"Well, guess who sounds like a Klingon?" Charlie huffs and gives Cas a condescending smile. "You. It's you, Cas. You sound just like a Klingon."

"How do I sound like a Klingon? If I sound like anyone, I sound like Commander Spock—which means that I sound perfectly reasonable because tribbles are disquieting and truly pointless creatures. Which is what he said about them."

"You sound like a Klingon because Klingons don't get along with tribbles—and tribbles don't get along with Klingons, either. I mean, Klingons don't like to advertise this, but the real reason their colonization of the tribbles' home-world failed was that they kept running into the tribbles. I get why they don't like talking about it, because there wasn't even any sentient opposition to their conquest, but—"

"But I could not possibly care less than I already do," Cas says, and sighs heavily when he gets a _Look_ from Dean. "What I intended to say is that I don't care. Because I don't find Klingons nearly as interesting as you do, Lieutenant Bradbury. But I do mean that in a nice way?"

"Remind me to bug Jim about getting you and Spock to spend less time together," Dean says, rubbing at the bridge of his nose and linking his arm with Charlie's again. "Seriously, he's starting to rub off on you."

"You say that as though it's a bad thing," Cas points out and shrugs. Technically speaking, it might be a bad thing—not because of anything about Commander Spock himself, but because all the times Cas has failed to keep Spock from getting into his thoughts and feelings represent a potential opportunity for their psyches to influence each other in all manner of untoward ways. But the last thing Cas wants to do is talk about his telepathy lessons with Charlie Bradbury, especially not where other people could eavesdrop on them. 

Never mind that he'd probably be violating some Vulcan statute of secrecy. He's not sure, he doesn't know what things he's supposed to keep quiet or not. But it's a convenient excuse to push the conversation on to less personal topics—like what they could do with themselves next. 

Eventually, they end up wandering through a collection of animals. It's not quite a zoological park, mostly because it's not quite big enough to deserve that title, but it's a decent assortment of interesting lifeforms from all across the galaxy. There are reptiles of all kinds behind glass panels, and some colorful scorpion that Cas has never even read about—which, in fairness to himself, makes sense because he's a doctor, not a xenobiologist. But it still catches him off guard when Charlie notes that she knows something that he doesn't for once, and it's not something that's about Klingons or Trills or one of the many other cultures she's dealt with in her research.

In one pit, the proprietor's acquired an entire family of sehlats, a male, a female, and their litter of six babies—and Cas lingers by the railing overlooking their little den, even when Dean and Charlie wander off to look at the next pit over with the Kryonian tigers. Cas sighs, staring down at the animals as they trundle around their makeshift home. Even considering the six-inch fangs, he doesn't particularly see what makes them special, but he still feels a dry lump swelling up in his throat and he still gets some stinging twist in the pit of his stomach. If he'd grown up on Vulcan, he would have had a pet sehlat. He's accidentally seen some of Spock's memories of his own I-Chaya during their lessons, and Cas can imagine what it would've been like to have had a sehlat himself. 

Knowing his luck, Cas probably would've messed up something and gotten his pet sehlat killed. Or it would have hated him for no discernible reason and infinitely preferred Anna, even though there's not a drop of Vulcan blood in her. Just like their one foster family, the Miltons, infinitely preferred Anna—enough to make her their daughter while sending Cas on to the next home. It makes no sense for Cas to be thinking about this now—especially since he _doesn't_ have emotions about any of this, of course he doesn't and why would he—but it's only his ingrained sense of realism that convinces him of how pointless having a pet sehlat as a child would've been. And it's probably for the better that he never had the privilege.

At least the little menagerie has plenty of other attractions. And at least Dean and Charlie don't ask any questions when Cas joins them at the pen of Tarkalean sheep.

The major draw of the place, though, seems to be the aquarium, full of all kinds of different species, most of which Cas has only ever seen in illustrated write-ups on his PADD. Some of them, he remembers seeing when he was a child and his foster parents took him and their children to the Steinhart Aquarium at the California Academy of Sciences, which should have been a lovely time—and probably would've been, if not for Gabriel trying his best to convince Cas that the Denebian whales' favorite treat was live Vulcan children. And if not for the fact that, for a little while and despite all the logic of the situation, Cas believed him. 

Cas sighs as he watches all the fish and eels circling around their encasement, and for all it isn't logical, he envies them. They don't have to worry about anyone thinking that they're not logical enough, or that they aren't emotional enough. They don't have to worry about being too human for most Vulcans but too Vulcan for most humans and never wanted in either world. They don't have to pick one part of themselves to put above the other, just because the only way that anyone will accept them is if they erase and neglect the other part of their heritage. Slouching at the hips, Cas folds his arms over his chest—and he jumps when he feels something drop onto his shoulder.

Turning around, Cas huffs—it's just Dean, and he's blinking at Cas as though Cas is one of the animals and he just did a particularly appalling trick.

"Relax, Pretty Boy, it's just me. The Koberian tiger-bats didn't get loose or anything," Dean says and reaches down toward Cas's bare wrist. 

Without even thinking, Cas jerks his hand back—damn his uniform's short sleeves and damn his gloves for not being elbow-length. Damn him for having any exposed skin whatsoever.

"Have you _completely_ lost your senses?" he hisses and wrinkles his nose at Dean. "You know what's going to happen if you touch my skin. Besides, we're in public, and Commander Spock says that skin contact is considered incredibly intimate on Vulcan. It would be like if you… got me naked in front of all these people."

Dean furrows his brow and looks around at the other patrons, what patrons there are, anyway. A few other people from the ship—a few ensigns, mostly, and Lieutenant Stiles—and for the most part, no one who Cas recognizes. Which doesn't really help put him at ease, for all he feels like it probably should. If he doesn't recognize these people, then that means that they don't recognize him, which means that they won't know what's going on, or probably even care about it at all. But they could still judge him and Dean. They could still get ideas about what's going on, and they could still judge—

And none of them can help—nothing about the situation helps at all—when Dean pouts at Cas and says, "Come on, Blue Eyes. We haven't touched skin in _so long_ … Even sharing a bed, we haven't. I know Spock doesn't like it, but I do. And I know you do, too. Why would you ever human-kiss me if you didn't like it? We'll do it just once, then go get lunch. Besides, you're getting better at controlling your telepathy, right?"

Cas sighs, and he knows he shouldn't do it, but he still sticks his arm out where Dean can reach it. "Of course I'm getting better at controlling it," he says. "That's the point of my lessons with Commander Spock, isn't it? …But all the same. We can only have brief skin contact, Dean. It's too dangerous to go for too long, alright?" 

"Yeah, yeah, Cas, I got the memo: keep it quick." Which is the last thing that Dean says before gently curling his hand around Cas's wrist. 

The effect is instantaneous and Cas does nothing to prevent it. Silently, he runs over all of Commander Spock's instructions for how to keep people out of his thoughts and feelings, and how to keep from prying into others' thoughts—but he doesn't go through any of the steps. He lets his breathing run its own course, and as his eyes flutter closed, he gets glimpses into Dean's head, flashes and images of everything Dean's thinking, racketing into Cas's mind at full volume… 

—sitting down with a reporter for the Federation News Service, her name was Cassie Robinson and they went to high school together, dated each other before Dean joined Starfleet—telling his mother about everything his father did to him, and his father unexpectedly coming home—Sam's face as he rushed into the emergency room—sitting down with his attorney, a Rigellian appointed to him by Starfleet Command, discussing all the nuances of handling the case—sitting down with Meg, in her office with the door locked, and telling her about how his father's court martial went and how he feels about it—curling up in bed with Cas, when everything feels so much simpler, like the rest of the universe can't possibly touch them here—

And then, without entirely meaning to, Cas opens up his mind, starts projecting back at Dean, the same mix of flashes and images, but a different assortment of things, all kinds of things that Cas shouldn't be thinking about at all, because they're dead and they're gone and they happened in the past, so it's quite pointless to ruminate about them…

—sitting alone in his bedroom at eight years old, singing, "Happy Birthday" to himself because no one else remembered, not his foster parents or his foster brothers or even Anna, who wouldn't send a present for another week and would outright forget every birthday after that—running into Anna out and about in San Francisco, well, more like seeing her and her new parents at an _al fresco_ restaurant, watching from a distance while they ate and hoping Anna would just notice him, just once, so she'd have to either pretend they were still brother and sister or acknowledge that she abandoned him—swimming at a municipal pool in the sweltering mid-July, and Gabriel laughing coldly as he held Cas's head underwater—showing up at his newest new home, a Vulcan home, and hearing one of his foster siblings whisper, " _halfbreed_ " before he'd even learned Cas's name—taking the long way home after school, purposefully taking longer than he needed to, just so he could wander by Starfleet Academy's campus and dream about the day when he'd be there as a student, when he'd finally have a home—

Cas jerks his arm out of Dean's hold and the connection severs. Heart pounding in his ears, Cas turns away from Dean—there's still the matter of going to get lunch, but Cas can't even begin to think about that—it's only some miracle that he notices when Dean grabs at his hand and tugs him back.

"Hey, come on," Dean whispers. "Look, Cas, I—you can talk to me, okay? I'll go make some excuse to Charlie and we can go find somewhere quiet—one of the upper pylons maybe, where no one's gonna find us—and we'll talk. I mean. You can't just show me things like that and think we're not gonna talk about it."

"That's exactly what I think, Dean." _Not least because you have your own problems to deal with and no need to go shouldering mine_ , Cas muses as he yanks his hand out of Dean's hold. "I need a drink, but… I hope that you and Charlie enjoy your lunch. I'd recommend the Vulcan restaurant, but my knowledge of Vulcan cuisine is rather…"

Trailing off, Cas sighs and shakes his head. "I'll meet you by the transporter later. Or back in your quarters."


	3. Chapter 3

Sulking into the bar certainly doesn't make Cas feel any better, and neither does the fact that all the tables in the place are currently occupied. The Klingons stink up the place from their sprawling corner, and for all there are several other crew members from the _Enterprise_ in here, Cas can't say he really wants to sit with any of them. He makes himself nod at Commander Scott as he passes by the table he's sitting at, but that's mostly out of politeness. Acknowledging his boyfriend's boss seems like a good idea, especially when the Commander has turned a blind eye to Cas's presence in Engineering several times before.

Ultimately, though, Cas has to sit somewhere, and the only table that's relatively unoccupied is over in a far corner of the bar. Its only inhabitant has her golden-brown hair tied back in a ponytail that skirts the middle of her back and green skin that glimmers like a gemstone under the bar's lighting—so she's an Orion. And judging from the phaser at her hip and the multitude of pockets on her jacket and her trousers, judging by the Tabalian glass pendant resting on her clavicle, she's some kind of collector, perhaps a smuggler and probably not the safest option for a drinking partner. She's probably ten kinds of dangerous.

As Cas approaches, she doesn't look up from her drink or acknowledge him in any way, so he could still dart back to Commander Scott's table and endure all manner of awkward small-talk about who even knows what manner of pointless, uninteresting topics. He could suffer through Chekov's insistence that everything is actually Russian in origin, and put up with Commander Scott's enthusiasm for how the _Enterprise_ works. He could play everything safely and behave himself and sit with the people he knows how to handle.

Or he could clear his throat at the Orion, fold his arms over his chest, and ask if she wouldn't mind him joining her. Which, really, seems like the better option, overall. One of Cas's old foster brothers used to collect large beetles and leave them in Cas's bed. He can handle drinking with an Orion smuggler. She's much less likely to ask him questions about why he looks so pale and why his hands won't stop shaking.

Arching her eyebrow at him, she huffs a bit and drawls, "Are you sure you don't want to sit and drink with your friends, Starfleet? Haven't you heard: my people can be quite vicious."

"They're not my friends," Cas says without thinking about it, furrowing his brow at her. "We serve aboard the same vessel, but they are not my friends. At all. I'm perfectly content with not speaking, if you'd prefer that I keep quiet, but I'd like to sit with someone other than my fellow officers."

She eyes him for a moment, dragging her eyes up and down Cas's frame as though he's a piece of meat up for inspection—and then, right when he thinks she's going to tell him to leave, she flags one of the waitresses over and says instead, "My table is your table, Starfleet—and with whom, exactly, am I meant to be sharing drinks?"

Shrugging, Cas slips into the seat opposite her. "My name is Cas'tell. I'm a doctor aboard the starship, _Enterprise_."

"You must be a decent doctor, if you're assigned to the _Enterprise_." She only waits long enough for Cas to suppose that most of his patients have survived before she tells him, "As for me, I'm Bela—just plain, simple Bela."

"No offense intended, but you're just a plain, simple smuggler." Cas pauses, watching her blink at him and blinking back at her. "I have a former foster brother who is in the business of facilitating potentially less-than-legal transactions," he explains. "I don't think you particularly advertise yourself as a smuggler—but there are a few details that I picked up on. Details in your appearance, I mean. For example, your pendant is lovely, but I'm sure quite rare and not the easiest trinket to come by. You're carrying a phaser in the middle of a bar on a Federation space station. And you have several pockets."

She wrinkles her nose a bit as she asks, "Nice detective work—but what's so significant about my having several pockets?"

"Oh, nothing in particular, really. You have more places to put things, though, and I imagine that that would be very useful for a smuggler. Your dress would, I think, reflect the same sort of attitude that people in your line of work tend to have about their ships—not that I can comment on your ship, as I haven't seen it. But my ex-brother used to say that the most important part of any of his ships was the cargo hold."

Plain, simple Bela chuckles under her breath and supposes that Cas has a point—and then she commends him for his detective work again, right on time for a very confused waitress to deliver their drinks. She walks off possibly more confused than when she came by, probably because Bela immediately orders a second round. As she explains it to Cas, she rather likes him—as much as she ever likes anyone, at least—and she'd like to keep him around for at least a couple of rounds, really. It's not often that she gets to drink with someone who can actually keep her on her toes.

"Hell, if not for that uniform and how complicated it would be to get you out of your commission? I would snatch you up right now and make you the staff doctor aboard the _Insolence_ —which is what I call my ship." She smirks as though she's quite pleased with whatever cleverness she's somehow worked into this name.

And as she explains, "It's sort of my tribute to Starfleet, in a sense. Their ships are all named things like, 'the _Initiative_ ,' and, 'the _Venture_ ,' 'the _Endeavor_.' Well, I can hardly begrudge them their right to name their ships however they want, but when I got the chance to name my own ship, I picked out a noun that sums up my thoughts about most Starfleet officers. Not to mention my attitude about their attitude about any people who don't want Federation membership—which isn't to say that I support any of my people who go around, making life difficult for Starfleet. I don't really see the point or the potential profit in that. But there is still a decided problem in how the Federation and Starfleet view non-member planets and people."

Cas must admit that he doesn't understand what that last point is supposed to mean. "Some non-member planets are our enemies—like the Klingons and the Romulans—and so we must defend ourselves. But we view most non-member planets and people in good terms. As potential members of the Federation, or as potential friends. Starfleet may be the Federation's paramilitary arm, but we primarily operate as an instrument of peace—in fact, the _Enterprise_ 's mission is to put the Federation on good terms with any new species we might discover." 

"So that they can be potentially recruited into the Federation, yes," Bela says and cards her long, nimble-looking fingers through her bangs. "It's nothing personal or anything about you, Cas'tell—would, 'Cas' be alright? Could I call you, 'Cas' instead of, 'Cas'tell'?"

"I don't see why not. Most people do." Cas has even gotten in the habit of calling himself, 'Cas' and thinking of himself as, 'Cas' after a whole life of thinking of himself as, 'Cas'tell' and only as, 'Cas'tell.' It's probably something to do with spending so much time with Dean and his reluctance to use Cas's full name.

"Well, then, as I was saying… it's nothing personal or anything about you. My objection to how the Federation handles planets and people is strictly political." Bela shrugs, and throws back all of her whiskey, and doesn't even seem to mind the after-burn that much. "As an Orion, I've been met with suspicion and distrust on some Federation planets. Not because I'm a smuggler, but because my people don't want anything to do with Federation membership—and people have outright said that to me before. Even people I've done business with before have changed their tunes after their planets joined the Federation. And do you know what I always, _always_ hear about Federation membership?"

Cas doesn't suppose that he would know that—and Bela tells him, "The only thing I ever hear about Federation membership is how _wonderful_ it is. Even from people who distrusted the idea before their planets' governments accepted it. It leads people to distrust someone they've worked with for years and all because my planet chooses to retain its independence—but it's meant to be the most wonderful thing in the galaxy. Can you see why I might be suspicious? Why I _might_ , for example, find the Federation insidious? I wouldn't even be onboard this space station if not for the fact that I need to refuel and get my warp drive fixed. Too much of a chance for the Federation to snoop around where it isn't wanted." 

"I've never thought about it from the perspective of a non-Federation citizen," Cas says, but he nods all the same, takes a long sip out of his drink. "But I can see your point very clearly, yes. I can't say that I want to go and make friends with the Klingons or the Romulans—but I see why you don't entirely trust us. And to be perfectly honest, the myth of the Federation is something that I personally find rather distasteful. It is not logical to spread propaganda about our greatness amongst our citizens or amongst potential citizens rather than acknowledging our failings and allowing people to make informed decisions about whether or not they want Federation membership."

"That doesn't sound like a Starfleet office talking," Bela says, almost snickering.

Cas shrugs. "I'm speaking as a private citizen right now, though, and not as a Starfleet officer. And as a private citizen, I must admit that the Federation is hardly as perfect as it would like us to pretend. The people of two of the founding planets still harbor massive distrust of other species that no one will admit to until they're confronted with, say, a child with mixed human and Vulcan heritage. …I mean the people of Earth and Vulcan, naturally."

"Naturally," Bela huffs. "And you're speaking of your own experiences of course? …You don't have to admit to anything outright, if you don't want to—but your ears aren't right for a full-blooded Vulcan." 

"I don't mind admitting to anything. At least, I don't mind admitting anything to you—your attitude about the Federation indicates that you're more likely to be receptive to criticism of Federation citizens. My boyfriend and most everyone I know aboard the _Enterprise_ would not be so receptive." Sighing, Cas finishes off his whiskey. "Yes, I'm speaking of my own experiences—and of the experiences of someone I respect very much. I can't discuss his life in great detail, of course, but being half-Vulcan, he went through several things that are similar to what I've faced as a quarter-Vulcan."  

With a heavy sigh of her own, Bela supposes that not even Paradise can be as perfect as it wants people to believe, and when the waitress comes back with their drinks, Cas orders another set of refills. They make it through four more rounds on top of that before it happens—a Klingon commander starts harassing Commander Scott. Cas and Bela stop speaking to each other, just so they can listen in as the Klingon drawls, _The_ ** _Enterprise_** _shouldn't be hauling garbage. I meant to say that it should be hauled away_ ** _as garbage_** _._ Scott punches the Klingon so quickly that Cas almost can't believe it happens. But as the fighting spreads, all he does is shift his seat around so he's sitting next to Bela. She has a better position for watching this nonsense unfold.

"So much for the Federation's pretensions of decency and benevolence," she snickers over her glass, sipping at her drink. "Insult a man's vessel and all of that just explodes." 

"Oh, the _Enterprise_ isn't Commander Scott's ship," Cas tells her while he watches some Klingon tackle Ensign Chekov. "It's Captain Kirk's. Commander Scott simply has a rather… _intense_ relationship with the ship. My boyfriend works with him in Engineering, and he's told me certain disquieting things about how Commander Scott will sometimes talk to the ship, or stroke bits and pieces of it, or… As I said, disquieting."  

"I don't know about that—my chief mechanic aboard the _Insolence_ talks to her parts, sometimes. It might just be a mysterious mechanic thing."

"In that case, I sincerely hope that my boyfriend never catches whatever mechanic disease possesses people and makes them start talking to starships as though they're people." Cas smirks as he watches Chekov try to fight off one of the Klingons, and says, "I suppose this display just proves what I already believed. Namely, that Klingons bring out the worst in everyone, no matter how good someone's intentions are."

"As far as I've ever seen? You're completely right about that," Bela tells him, finishing up her whiskey and reaching for another one. "I might not like the Federation, but trust me, there's a reason why I never work with the Klingons." She pauses for a moment as some Lieutenant whom Cas doesn't recognize takes a blow to the jaw. "We should really pay the tab and get out of here before security shows up."

"Agreed," Cas says, as much as he doesn't like the idea of trying to stand up, at the moment. "And may I just say, plain, simple Bela? I am very pleased that I ran into you today. Would you like to go get lunch with me?"


	4. Chapter 4

True to his word, Cas meets Dean and Charlie by the transporters and they head back to the _Enterprise_ together. Once they're back onboard, Dean and Cas get dinner at the replimat, then retire to Dean's quarters, and Cas changes into one of his long-sleeved shirts so they can sleep together without risking too much skin-on-skin contact.

The next morning, Cas fully intends to sleep in—after all, he _is_ on shore leave until further notice, and his head has the dull throb of a mild hangover—but he's woken up by a message from the Captain, demanding his presence as soon as possible.

Captain Kirk's office is warm, possibly the warmest place that Cas has ever been on the _Enterprise_ , but there's nothing about it that's any kind of inviting. The different trophies and awards loom over them, glaring down at Cas as though he's done something wrong, something that actually merits being pulled into the Captain's office. He slouches in his seat and folds his hands up in his lap, but the fact is that he hasn't done anything wrong. And when Captain Kirk takes a seat opposite him, Cas does everything he can to keep his facial expression carefully, resolutely neutral. 

The only thing that doesn't fit with the sterile, imposing character of the office is the pair of Tribbles that seem to have snuck through the door. They're not doing anything in particular. Just sitting on the floor and trilling, as they seem wont to do. Unfortunate, useless things—at least Captain Kirk seems content to ignore them, eyeing Cas with his brow furrowed and his jaw set, rather looking like this whole matter is somehow Cas's fault. Like Cas should know exactly what he's done and why he's been called here this morning. Like Cas should expect an interrogation—and he wouldn't put that past his Captain.

At least, he wouldn't put it past Captain Kirk if he had any reason to think he needed to interrogate someone. He does rather enjoy trampling roughshod over all possible obstacles.

"I have no idea what you could possibly want with me, Captain," he says before Captain Kirk can get a word in for himself. "Yes, I was in the station's bar yesterday, but I wasn't involved in the fight with the Klingons. I drank, and then left. Are you interviewing me as a witness?"

Kirk sighs and shakes his head, leans back in his chair, and it's quite uncomfortable, being observed by him like this. Even if it's probably not meant to make him feel like a specimen in a laboratory, Cas can't help the thought that Captain Kirk is going to test his reflexes or inject him with something potentially toxic with a very large needle. It's illogical, and Cas realizes this, not least because Captain Kirk doesn't seem to have a very large needle on-hand, but all the same, it seems like a rational cause for anxiety. The only thing that makes the worry disappear is one of the Tribbles coming over and crawling onto the Captain's foot. Rolling his eyes, he bends down and picks the thing up, sets it gently on the desk.

"If these things aren't going to be the death of me, then I don't know what is," he says with a forced laugh.

"I don't see why they would pose a threat to you, sir," Cas tells him and shrugs. "Their rate of reproduction is, frankly, alarming, but as far as I've seen, they're one of the least dangerous creatures that we've had the displeasure of encountering. And I don't mean to be insubordinate, but you still haven't told me why I'm here? And I would like to _know_ why I'm here before I answer any questions? And will this meeting be on the record?"

If Cas didn't know any better, he'd half-expect that he's going to be interrogated under a very bright light and that he'll need to refuse to any questions without an attorney present. It's nothing personal, but there's something disquieting about the way his Captain's looking at him right now. Something about the glint in his eyes reminds Cas of the sehlats: Captain Kirk might be smiling at him and doing a very good job of looking like he's nothing more than Cas's kindly commanding officer, who want's nothing more than to be Cas's friend—but Cas would sooner trust a smiling Romulan, because at least he'd be able to reasonably predict the Romulan's next move with only a small margin of error.

Said next move would most likely be killing him, which isn't much comfort, but it's still more than Cas can predict about what Captain Kirk might do next. He doesn't even see it coming when Kirk tells him that this meeting will definitely not be on the record.

"Consider this a personal visit, Cas'tell," he says as though Cas should have expected this. "For the time being, I'm not your Captain. I'm just your friend right now—just a friend making a friendly recommendation. You could even call me, 'Jim' if you wanted."

"I prefer, 'Captain Kirk,' sir." Which Cas would be perfectly fine to let stand on its own, except for the one nagging thought that Dean would probably want Cas to make more of an effort to get along with someone so important to him as their Captain. So he sighs, and nudges a piece of hair off his forehead. "I don't mean to be acerbic, sir, but I'm… not especially comfortable with personal visits. What can I help you with?"

"I'd actually like to help _you_ , if you'll let me." Again, Captain Kirk smiles at Cas, and again, Cas doesn't trust it, not in the slightest. "Dean came to see me last night. He couldn't sleep, which I don't suppose is unusual for him these days?"

It takes Cas a moment to notice that Kirk isn't continuing his explanation—that he expects Cas to have something to say about this. All he can really do is shrug and suppose, "Dean has had some difficulty sleeping, to my knowledge, yes—but not enough that he's likely to repeat his episode from last year. Counselor Masters and I both believe that stress is the major factor here. Not because of his duties to the _Enterprise_ , of course, but because of the Quadrant-wide exposure that he's been thrust into following his father's court martial and subsequent incarceration—" 

"Oh, no, I know full well why Dean is stressed right now, and frankly, I'd be more worried if he were trying to pretend that everything's perfectly fine. Then we'd probably never get through to him at all. But," Kirk says, and points at Cas. "But, Cas'tell, my concern right now actually lies with you."

Cas furrows his brow and frowns enough that his face aches. "With me, sir? What did I do?"

Except for the part where Cas discussed potentially treasonous things in a bar with an Orion smuggler last night. But Captain Kirk doesn't know about that and, frankly, he doesn't need to know.

"It's not about anything you did," Kirk says. "And I know this is likely to be uncomfortable for both of us, but all the same… You're here to talk about how you're feeling. That's what Dean's concerned about, anyway—apparently, you two touched skin yesterday and he got some glimpses of your thoughts that worried him."

"So you took that as an indication that you ought to invite yourself into our personal life and try to play my therapist?" Cas wrinkles his nose at Captain Kirk, and digs his fingertips into his thigh. It's uncomfortable, but at least it's keeping him from trying to punch his CO in the mouth. "Sir, if you want to recommend that I talk to Meg in her role as ship's counselor, then I will certainly consider doing that. But anything else feels like an unbelievable invasion of privacy. And I don't appreciate it."

Vaguely, Cas thinks about Bela and her crew of miscreants. A quarter-Vulcan doctor might not be entirely out of place aboard the _Insolence_ —or at least, it might be better there than it's ever been among humans. At least, it might be better than Captain Kirk looking at Cas as though he's grown a second head, or tried to run away and join the Klingons, or started speaking some language that the Universal Translators can't make sense of—and it would certainly be better than this sick, scraping, twisting feeling like bugs are crawling around underneath of Cas's skin. 

"I don't mean to recommend anything, Doctor," Kirk says after an uncomfortably long moment of silence. "I certainly don't mean to imply that you need to seek counseling, unless this is something that you already want to do. I just want to tell you—as a friend to your _t'hy'la_ who'd like to be a friend to you as well—that it's no good for you or for Dean to constantly prioritize his problems over your own."

Cas sighs and counts to ten in his head. Tries to remind himself that what Kirk's said is completely logical. If Kirk wants to be his friend, then it's perfectly reasonable to expect that he'll offer friendly advice—but at the same time, Cas isn't sure how much he wants to blur the line between his Captain and one of his friends. And he's similarly not sure why Kirk's words sting him so deeply, or why they make his stomach sour and writhe around so uncomfortably. Never mind why they make him think about Gabriel holding his head underwater, or all the times he's suffered through a transmission from Anna without any idea what to say to her—there's no logical connection between what Kirk's said and where Cas's mind is going.

Regardless of what he's thinking, though, Cas manages to say, "I don't believe that I do that, sir. But if this is the only thing that you wanted to discuss, then I do believe that I'd like to leave now. Because I think the matter's settled, and I'd like to go to the replimat for breakfast now."

Fortunately, Captain Kirk has no objections to this idea, and once he's been dismissed, Cas sulks out of his Captain's office without another word.

  
*******  

"Dammit, I just wish I'd been there in the bar for that fight, you know what I mean?"

Furrowing his brow, Cas blinks at Dean, then down at one of the many tribbles that's invaded their table in the ship's replimat (though at least they got lucky enough to get food from the replicators—tribbles have started coming out for everyone else). Watching Charlie cuddle one of the inane, fuzzy things, Cas considers what Dean's said for a moment before ultimately shaking his head and supposing that he has no idea what Dean means. After all, there's nothing about the fight that was particularly worth all of the trouble that the display caused for everyone.

"It really wasn't anything interesting, Dean," he says. "One of the Klingons, being a Klingon and rather drunk and probably unable to control himself, started harassing Commander Scott. He said something negative about the _Enterprise_ , and Commander Scott punched him. This turned into an enormous fight that made everyone involved look childish and terrible, and I left right as the station's security team showed up to handle things. You honestly didn't miss anything at all."

"I missed the chance to punch a Klingon, Cas," Dean says, with a considerable whine in his voice. "I'd love to punch a Klingon sometime, just to say that I did it, you know what I mean?" 

"Once again, no, Dean. I can't say that I know what you mean." Sighing, Cas reaches across the table and brushes some of Dean's hair off of his forehead—and rolls his eyes when he catches Charlie smirking at them. "Punching a Klingon would most likely do more damage to you than to him. From what I've read about Klingon physiology, they're incredibly hardy, with more than their fair share of strength in their bones. You'd probably break your hand, depending on where you punched him and how hard you did so. It would not be particularly fun for you." 

"Aw, thanks for caring about me, Babe." Dean smirks at Cas besottedly, and immediately touches his fingers to Cas's when Cas holds his out for a Vulcan kiss. "Can I phaser one of the Klingons instead, then? I'll set it to, 'stun' and everything, and I'll do it from around a corner so he can't see me, and… please?" 

"I don't think you're considering the full range of effects that yesterday's fight could have," Cas explains and gently bats a tribble away from the tray. He doesn't want to hurt the thing, but he doesn't want it eating his eggs, either. "The Sherman's Planet affair is hugely important to the Federation. The fight might not lose us the planet, but it could still cause a diplomatic incident. Which could lead to a hot war with the Klingons, instead of our current situation. And if things explode into a hot war…"

Cas pauses, and sighs, and bats the tribble away from his food again. "Dean, there's no guarantee that the Federation would come out of that victorious. Or at least, there's no guarantee that we wouldn't suffer from massive casualties that would make the victory truly pointless."

"Sort of interesting perspective coming from you, Cas," Charlie says, arching her eyebrow and mussing her fingers through the tribble's fur. "I mean, yesterday, you were all about calling the Klingons barbarians and going on about how terrible they are. Almost like you were feeling all kinds of anger toward them and stuff."

Shrugging, Cas picks up his fork again and pokes at his eggs. "Just because I don't like Klingons doesn't mean that I have any desire to see the Federation get into a war that we might not win, Lieutenant," he points out. "And, again, I think that I must remind you that I do not have any feelings about the Klingons. I have beliefs about the Klingons that I have reached through a combination of observation, research, and logical inference. That is not the same thing as having feelings about them." 

"You keep telling yourself that, Doctor Blue Eyes." Charlie huffs and rolls her eyes again. "Anybody with any sense can look at you and tell that you've got feelings about the Klingons, and you know what? It's _okay_. Especially since, like, with your personal history with the Klingons… I mean, I'd be mad at them, too, if they'd killed my parents."

"I wasn't old enough to _know_ my parents when they died, Lieutenant Bradbury." Sighing, Cas tries to clear his head, but doesn't stop himself from tightening his grip around his fork. "It would be illogical for me to have any emotions about their loss, or about growing up without them, and so I don't have these feelings. Now, if you don't mind, I would like to finish my breakfast before I need to go meet Commander Spock."

*******

But for all Cas wants to believe that there's nothing wrong, his session with Commander Spock seems intent to try and prove him wrong. As soon as Spock's hand is on him, Cas's mind opens up, his thoughts start rushing out toward Commander Spock, flashes and images and a whirlwind of things that make no sense for Cas to even have at the foreground of his mind… 

—being seven years old and asking his case-worker, a Vulcan woman named T'rell, what happened to his parents, why were he and Anna in the foster care system in the first place—sitting at a kitchen table, doing homework and feeling his blood boil as he tried to ignore Gabriel's taunting, the way he kept singsonging, _halfbreed, halfbreed, halfbreed_ —snapping a pencil without meaning to, all because he saw a news report about another Federation vessel destroyed by Klingons—reading about the Klingon assault on some non-Federation planet Cas had never even heard of before and wishing for war, just so the Federation could try to destroy their bloodthirsty empire—being ten years old and lying awake in his newest bedroom, unable to sleep and staring out the window at what stars he could make out, waiting for the day he could run away to them, get out of San Francisco and away from all the people who didn't want him—

After the third failed attempt to keep Spock out of his thoughts, Cas gets his arm released from his Commander's hold—and as he scrubs at his wrist, he can't escape hearing Spock's heavy sigh. If Cas didn't know any better—if he didn't know that Spock's mesiofrontal cortex is more developed than his own, that Spock's experience of emotion is less human and more Vulcan than what Cas experiences—he might mistake the sound for irritation.

But since he knows better, Cas can tell: Commander Spock isn't irritated with him; he's disappointed, or as close to disappointed as he can get, because this session marks a major step backward in Cas's progress. Just a week ago, he was getting better at keeping Spock out of his mind, but today… No such luck.

"Your mind is cluttered, Cas'tell," Spock tells him unnecessarily, moving behind his desk and taking a seat. "Have you been working on your meditation exercises?"

"Of course, Commander. I work on them every night. I've even kept my quarters separate from Dean's because I know that my meditation is supposed to be private…" Cas huffs and folds his arms over his chest, and idly thinks that this isn't entirely unlike all the times he got called into the Principal's office when he was a child. "I've been working on my meditation exercises, Commander, it's simply that—" 

"It's simply that you've grown accustomed to a certain level of comfort," Commander Spock says, half-drawling and staring at Cas so intently that a chill rushes down his spine. "Perhaps 'comfort' is the wrong word. You've become accustomed to training your abilities from, shall we say, a certain level of emotional and psychological equilibrium. Of course, you've had emotions to deal with in caring for Lieutenant Winchester during the ordeal with his family, but those are different. More temporary. Running afoul of the Klingons has awoken other emotions in you. Some that are, evidently, more deeply rooted than you would like to admit."

"I don't think it's awoken any _emotions_ in me. I simply believe that it's driving my thoughts into places that I wouldn't normally visit otherwise."

"If it hadn't awoken any emotions in you, then you would have more control over your thoughts, Cas'tell. It is that simple." And the way that Spock arches his eyebrow makes Cas think that there's no room for argument on this matter. "I speak from experience when I say that you cannot learn to control your abilities by denying that you experience emotions. You must acknowledge them in order to properly control them. Now, sit down and meditate for a moment and we'll try the exercise again."

This sounds about as enjoyable as operating on a Bolian, but even so, Cas nods and mutters, "Of course, Commander," because all of the other options are probably ten times worse.


End file.
